


Force Majeure

by Laylah



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist
Genre: M/M, Military, Power Dynamics, What-If
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-13
Updated: 2009-11-13
Packaged: 2017-10-02 14:43:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laylah/pseuds/Laylah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He writes with his left hand, smiles with the left side of his mouth, does everything with the kind of precision lawlessness that means he knows exactly how far a regulation will bend without actually being broken.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Force Majeure

Captain Frank Archer is not surprised, at the war's end, to learn that most of the State Alchemists will be stationed in Central as part of Amestria's governmental bureaucracy. There have been rumors to that effect for months, and he makes it a point to be more well-informed than the average rumor-mongering soldier. From reading the files to which his C-rank security clearance provides access, he determines that alchemists will be assigned to the research and development division, to the corps of engineers, and to his own investigations department.

That last gives him pause: what would change, in the course of their investigations, if they had regular access to the skills of a nationally certified alchemist?

From cursory, publicly available research, it seems the short answer is that it depends on the alchemist. At certification level, they specialize in vastly different fields; there seems to be almost no overlap, for instance, between the amplification and restoration work of the Crystal Alchemist and the offensive pyrotechnics of the Flame Alchemist. To know what resources will be at his disposal, Archer must know which alchemists will be assigned to his division. Neither his limited security clearance nor his scant opportunities to research beyond it provide him with any specific answers. All he can do for now is read all the dossiers, and make what predictions he may.

It's a Monday morning when the Alchemists arrive. Everyone in Archer's office is already there, already at work -- there was an apparently random homicide three nights ago in the old city that Archer suspects was not in fact random at all -- when the door opens and the Fuhrer strides in. Archer comes to attention automatically, and hears the scrape of chairs around him as his men do the same. Bradley smiles at them, the broad, reassuring smile that makes him such a popular leader.

"Gentlemen," he says, "may I present the Crimson Alchemist, Major Zolf J. Kimberly."

Major Kimberly -- soon to be Lieutenant Colonel, if Archer has deduced correctly -- steps into the room, and Archer can't look anywhere else. Major Kimberly is one of the heroes of the last night of the war, one of the men whose unflinching determination and unbridled power brought them victory. He's also completely at ease, calm but alert, his skin still tanned from the desert sun and his eyes a bright, searching wolf-gold. His hair is pulled back from his face in an outrageously non-regulation ponytail that seems at odds with the comfortable, settled fit of his uniform across his shoulders.

"Good morning," he says, and for all that Archer knows he was educated at Central, there's still a warm hint of Dublith in his voice. "It's good to meet you."

"Captain Archer will assist you in getting settled," Bradley says. "He will be your second in the office."

Kimberly smiles, meeting Archer's eyes. "At ease," he says, and Archer clasps his hands behind his back. "I've heard a lot about you," Kimberly adds, and looks Archer up and down, slowly, deliberately. "I'm sure you won't let me down."

"No, sir," Archer says, trying to keep his voice, and his face, impassive. That was an appallingly personal appraisal, and if Kimberly's been hearing _that_ about him -- "I'm surprised to see you in our department," he says, to put the conversation on more stable ground. "I would have expected your demolitions expertise to make you well-suited to the corps of engineers."

"My demolitions expertise," Kimberly purrs, "doesn't have many peacetime applications."

Bradley laughs. "Indeed not," he says. "But I hope you will apply yourself as diligently here as you did on the battlefield."

"My pleasure, Your Excellency," Kimberly says. He holds Archer's gaze until the pure animal discomfort is too much to bear, and Archer has to look down.

Perhaps no amount of research could have prepared him for this.

Kimberly adjusts to the investigations office remarkably quickly. He asks intelligent questions about their operations, and never needs to be told the same thing twice. He describes his alchemical specialty as volatile organic transmutation, and laughs when Archer comes to the logical conclusion about his wartime performance. He writes with his left hand, smiles with the left side of his mouth, does everything with the kind of precision lawlessness that means he knows exactly how far a regulation will bend without actually being broken. By Wednesday Archer is wondering what he would be like as Fuhrer.

By Friday he's suggesting it aloud. "You could go all the way to the top," he says, as he watches their squad escort the killer they'd tracked down -- and who will likely face a firing squad, with the two other murders Kimberly has managed to pin on him -- from a squalid tenement. "All you would need is one or two dedicated men beneath you."

"Hmm," Kimberly says. Archer is standing to his right, can't see if he's smiling. "Is that where you want to be, captain? Beneath me?"

Archer lets the innuendo be. "You'll find you can depend on me," he says. Kimberly has the charisma to hold the office, the glory of a war hero. Archer will stand in his shadow and spend his energy instead on _accomplishing_ things.

"I've no doubt," Kimberly says.

Sergeant Blackburn jogs up to them, salutes. "The house is secured, sir," he says. "But there's a huge mess in the basement, probably another four or five hours of work to sort through everything he's hidden down there."

"Well done," Kimberly says. "We'll clear it out for evidence tonight." It's already after 1500 hours; Archer can see Blackburn's face fall. "Everyone who stays on with me after 1800 hours will earn himself some extra leave time."

"Sir," Blackburn says, brightening.

Kimberly salutes, the gesture somehow flippant when he does it, like an invitation to an inside joke. "Pass the word."

About half the squad elects to stay late -- Archer makes a note of who does not, so he might recommend them for transfer when the opportunity next arises -- and they finish with the mess in the basement at 1945. Not only will their killer face the firing squad, but several missing persons cases in the city can be closed. Archer is grateful for the reprieve when they finish at last; the smell alone was enough to make those last few hours extremely unpleasant.

"Congratulations, sir," he says when they've left the house. The air is chill, damp with coming rain, and the sun has gone down while they worked. "An excellent conclusion to your first case."

Kimberly digs a packet of cigarettes out of his jacket. "First of many if I stick with you, is it?" he asks. The flare as he strikes a match makes his face look sharp, angular. Feral.

"I do feel we worked well together," Archer says. He watches the hollowing of Kimberly's cheeks as he smokes, and wishes he could make himself look away. Kimberly will think he wants -- and perhaps he does, but not the way Kimberly would allow it, not --

Kimberly drops the cigarette half-finished and crushes it under his boot. "Come home with me." The tone is almost casual, possibly only a suggestion.

Archer asks anyway. "Is that an order?"

The corner of Kimberly's mouth twists. "Do I seem like the sort of man who'd give an order like that?"

The question makes Archer hesitate: yes, Kimberly seems like the sort of officer who would give any order he could get away with; no, Kimberly doesn't seem like the sort of man who would squander his authority on such a meaningless risk.

"Or maybe it's that you like my orders," Kimberly says.

He lunges, much faster than he should be able to, one hand fisting in Archer's jacket and the other wrapped around his throat, warm array against bare skin. Archer's back hits the wall and his noise of protest is muffled by Kimberly's mouth covering his, and in the strange way of critical moments he notices that Kimberly smells more like matches than like tobacco. The kiss bruises, cuts; Archer tastes copper where his lip is crushed against his teeth. He's dizzy by the time Kimberly releases him.

"Come home with me," Kimberly says again.

"Yes, sir," Archer says.

Kimberly is quiet on the way to the house the military has provided for him. Archer doesn't know if it's a deliberate choice, to let him think about what he's agreed to, or if Kimberly's simply naturally comfortable with the silence. He thinks about what's coming, what he'll get from it if he doesn't flinch. He has no doubt that Kimberly will expect him to be on the receiving end of this exchange, and though he's never cared much for that he believes it's a small price to pay for the alliance he makes.

The house is one of the smaller ones off-base; Kimberly has no wife, no family to need the extra space. He unlocks the front door, doesn't bother to turn on the lights as he leads the way to the bedroom at the back of the house. Archer expected -- he doesn't know what, really; possibly books or alchemical paraphernalia, something to touch the place with Kimberly's presence, but the room is spare and austere as a prison cell.

"Take your clothes off," Kimberly says as he unclasps his own jacket. His tone is less casual now, less suggestion and more order. Like his inherent power shows through. Like he's realized Archer responds well to orders. The reason barely matters.

Archer undresses, and Kimberly watches him. Even in the dim light from the streetlights outside, the admiration on Kimberly's face is plain. So this is not only a demonstration of power; Kimberly is another man like him, one of the silent fraternity within the military who find their tastes turn to others of their own kind, to hard strength and rough encounters rather than the civilized love that finds its expression in home and family. Archer can expect some cruelty, then, but there is at least little shame in being mastered by a man of Kimberly's power.

Kimberly undresses completely, somewhat to Archer's surprise. He looks magnificent, every inch of him muscular and hard. Archer can't help staring at his cock. "You look like you're expecting a battle," he says.

"Your reputation precedes you," Archer says.

"This isn't what I got my reputation for," Kimberly says, and closes the distance between them.

His skin is hot, his mouth hotter, his kiss invasive enough to suggest other things. Archer hasn't sucked cock since he was a cadet in his first year at the Academy, but if Kimberly were to demand it of him now -- if Kimberly were to push him to his knees and order him to --

Kimberly pulls back from the kiss, his teeth scraping Archer's lower lip before he lets go. "Bed," he says.

Archer is surprised to recognize the lurch of his stomach as disappointment. Some part of him _wanted_ to be overpowered like that, made to kneel and surrender his mouth again. What is Kimberly doing to him?

He climbs onto Kimberly's bed, arranges himself there on his elbows and knees. He's hard for this, easily, more easily than he can ever remember being when someone else was to take him. Behind him he can hear the scrape of a drawer, which he takes to mean that Kimberly is considerate enough to provide a more suitable lubricant than saliva.

"Sure of your place," Kimberly says, and the bed creaks under his weight before Archer can determine whether to argue. "This what you're looking for?" he goes on, and then his fingers slide between the cheeks of Archer's ass, slick with something oily and cool.

"Sir," Archer says, and his breath stutters in his throat when Kimberly penetrates him like that, fingers sliding into his ass with a shameful lack of resistance.

"Don't do this often, do you?" Kimberly asks. He sounds pleased at the thought. Archer shakes his head. "No. You don't like people that much, do you, captain? You'd have to let someone way too close to you for this."

"Consider it, ah, a compliment," Archer says. If Kimberly wants this to be personal, he can do that, more or less. It's true that he wouldn't do this for just anyone.

Kimberly hums. "Strange choice for someone to let close, though," he says. His other hand splays flat against the small of Archer's back. "Most of the guys I went to war with did their best to stay out of arm's reach of me."

Archer doesn't know what Kimberly's doing with his fingers, but it feels _good_ \-- invasive and demanding, but somehow pleasant, too, unnatural and still compelling. "Their loss, I'm sure," he grits out.

"Now you're just flattering me," Kimberly says. "They had their reasons." He strokes Archer's spine and his touch _burns_, unbearable heat that makes Archer cry out in surprise, his ass clenching reflexively around the fingers of Kimberly's other hand.

"God," he says helplessly, "oh god," and he's trembling, dizzy at the sudden shock of pain, his breath coming in loud ragged gasps.

"_Fuck_," Kimberly says, "that's even hotter than I hoped it would be." He withdraws his fingers, and Archer catches himself rocking backward as if he's trying to keep Kimberly from pulling out. "I know it's fast, but are you ready?"

Archer manages to nod, barely, and he tries to brace himself as best he can -- at least the pain of the burn is distracting, so if this is too much too soon it won't really matter -- and then Kimberly is stretching out on the bed beside him.

"Come here," Kimberly says. He's on his back, one hand bracing the base of his cock and the other reaching under Archer's body to catch him by the hip and pull him over.

"You -- you want me on top of you?" Archer says. It seems bizarre. Too personal, hard to reconcile with this --

Kimberly's smile is wide and sensual, and for the first time since Archer met him it stretches across both sides of his face. "I'm a combat alchemist," he says. "I like to watch when things come apart."

"Yes," Archer says without meaning to, without the self-possession to stop himself. He straddles Kimberly's lean hips and he's still shaking and the burn throbs in time with his heart, but he's hard, and when he pushes himself down on Kimberly's cock he moans.

That burns too, thick and hard, nearly too much friction, but it's not unpleasant. He feels off-balance, wanton. This isn't what he was expecting.

"Yes," Kimberly hisses. "You feel good there, captain."

"God," Archer says, and closes his eyes. It sounds unbearably banal -- he is too rational for god at any other time -- but he can't seem to help himself. Any pleasure he took in this should have been precarious, conditional, won _despite_ the act rather than -- Kimberly's cock drives up into him, and Archer moans like a whore.

Kimberly moans back, the sound low and raw, and a shudder runs down Archer's spine. "Move with me," Kimberly says. "Like that." His hands -- god, his deadly hands -- curl around Archer's hips, pulling him down in counterpoint with each thrust. Archer reaches for his own cock as Kimberly fucks him deep; not only does he think he _can_ come like this, but this time he _wants_ to, and he can't even summon any shame at the idea of Kimberly seeing him like this.

"Open your eyes," Kimberly orders, and Archer can only obey. Kimberly is watching him, hungry, demanding, and when Archer meets his eyes he shifts, pushes Archer's hand out of the way so he can take hold of Archer's cock himself. "Give me this, captain," he says. "I want to be the one to take you apart. I want you to give it to me," and there's just enough stress on the last word to be unsettling all over again, just enough possessiveness to make Archer's nerves thrill with something that _should_ be fear and yet is not.

"You want," Archer says, but he can't finish that sentence, can't find the breath nor the words, "you -- sir --" The fingertips of Kimberly's other hand trace his hipbone, heated enough to make him squirm, not enough to truly burn this time -- and Archer wonders if Kimberly is vicious enough to do that with the hand on his cock, imagines what that would feel like, catches _himself_ by surprise at the sudden spike of nervous pleasure at that thought, the ache in his balls, the tightening of his ass around Kimberly's cock -- the broken sound he makes then as he passes the point of no return and shoots across Kimberly's stomach.

"Yes," Kimberly hisses, taking hold of Archer's hips with both hands, driving up harder, and this, this pain, is more like what Archer expected -- aching, too sensitive, and Kimberly fucking him mercilessly, expecting him to just take it. He grits his teeth, trying not to show weakness now, not to disappoint his commander when this has gone so well thus far.

His back throbs, burned and sore, and his breath feels raw in his lungs. Every thrust of Kimberly's cock aches. Archer closes his hands around Kimberly's forearms for balance, and pushes himself down harder. "Do it," he says. "God -- finish."

Kimberly laughs shortly. "Had all you can stand?" His voice is breathless, his smile crooked and wild. "Beg me to come."

Archer's cheeks burn. "Please, sir," he says. "I want you to come, want to -- feel you -- god, please -- please come in my ass, sir," and he tells himself he wouldn't say it without Kimberly's orders, but god, now that he knows Kimberly likes it --

"Like that," Kimberly says, "fuck -- yes," and his grip on Archer's hips is tight enough to hurt, that hungry smirk twisted into something less polished and more desperate -- and then his back arches and a shudder wracks him and Archer _knows_ it's not possible to feel it, but he imagines he can feel Kimberly's come burning inside him just like Kimberly's hands have burned against his skin.

He's not sure where to look, afterward. This position makes it entirely too personal, too awkward to disengage. Had he been on his knees --

"Here," Kimberly says, sliding one hand down to curl under Archer's thigh and steady him.

Archer leans forward, his hand on the mattress beside Kimberly's shoulder for balance as he rises. It stings to move, and his breath hitches despite himself.

Kimberly's hands are almost gentle now, guiding him to lie down on the other side of the bed, easing down carefully on his stomach. "Sore?" he says.

"A little," Archer admits. Kimberly's fingertips are drawing slow lines down his back. It's unnerving. Too personal again, too kind a touch.

"That burn's going to need some attention," Kimberly says. His hand stops just above it, and the proximity makes Archer aware of how tender it feels. "Stay right there. Let me see if I have anything for that."

He gets up, the bed creaking as he rises, and walks out of the room without bothering to stop to dress. Archer watches him go, watches light spill in the hallway a minute later. He's exhausted, shaky, and he wonders if Kimberly intends for him to stay the night. It's possible, given how strange the rest of this encounter has been. No amount of research could have prepared him for this.

But the second time -- the second time, he thinks he'll know what to expect.


End file.
